


And Three Makes (Entertaining) Company

by apostate (394percentdone)



Series: Three Leaf Clover [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Multi, Pegging, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/394percentdone/pseuds/apostate
Summary: Marsaili and Wyll leave Astarion by himself to go shopping for a surprise for part of the evening and return to find him with a surprise of his own.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s), Astarion/Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Wyll/Original Character(s) (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s)
Series: Three Leaf Clover [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981582
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	And Three Makes (Entertaining) Company

Astarion flops on the bed with a huff. It’s the first time the three of them have had a proper bed and what do they do? Leave him behind in the inn while they run errands just because Marsaili said something about a surprise to which Wyll had agreed with a long look in his direction, a look which had done absolutely nothing to quell his desire to drag them both back to their room. 

Every candle in the room is lit, if the innkeeper wanted to be stingy Astarion would use every damn candle until it burned to nothing more than a nub. Though if he’s honest they’re not doing much. Just throwing weak flickering light about the place and he sneers halfheartedly at the ceiling. 

If he’s more honest Astarion knows he wouldn’t be this pissy if he had company.

But Astarion is  _ not _ in the business of being honest, much less with himself. Flat on his back, kicking his legs back and forth off the edge, what do they expect him to do? It’s  _ boring _ by himself. Counting whirls in the wooden rafters above him loses his interest instantly, he determined the poor quality of the sheets the moment he had landed on them, and the idea of unpacking his supplies to go through them is. Eugh, no. 

Turning his head to the side he can make out his pile stacked haphazardly next to Wyll’s and Marsaili’s much neater arrangements. Sighs heavily with his cheek squished into the bed sheets. This is ridiculous. Musing over himself, until, in the candlelight, something glints in his open satchel and Astarion blinks slowly. Grin sliding across his face. 

Why didn’t he think of that sooner? Those two aren’t the only ones who get to go shopping for surprises. If they’re going to leave him alone he can make sure they don’t want to do it again soon.

Standing slowly Astarion makes his way over to his pile and rummages around for a brief moment before pulling a deep black corset out. Delicate silver clasps drip down the down the main body of the corset ready to hold the crimson stockings folded under it. Somewhere in the mess of clothes in there should be the matching short chemise and it takes him quite a bit longer to find it stuffed alongside his other clothes but with a triumphant grunt Astarion yanks it out too. 

It’s slightly wrinkly but that’s fine, it’s going under the corset anyway. Astarion stands and tosses the shirt over to the bed, walking over with the corset and stockings in hand. Placing them gently on the bed sheets before he starts undressing. Without anyone to watch he doesn’t really feel like putting much effort into it so he quickly sheds his clothes and throws them back towards his rucksack, they mostly make it. Not his current problem. 

Under his bare feet the floorboards are rough, loose ends and splinters in the cheap wood and he  _ just _ bought these stockings there’s not a chance he’s going to risk snagging them on the first night he gets to wear them. Astarion climbs back on the bed and grabs the stockings first, pauses. 

And starts pulling them on slowly. Thin crimson whispers over his leg smoothly, his knuckles grazing his skin momentarily. He’s alone, no rush in getting dressed, thoughts wandering to what his lovers would have to say if they could see him. What will they say when they do return. 

His chemise is next. The same deep red as his stockings but no longer transparent, it falls to the tops of his thighs and no further. Nowhere to hide exactly how badly he wants them both to come walking through that door just to see him. Because they’re going to have to apologize before they can touch him. Astarion grins wickedly in the candlelight, smooths his hands over the chemise before trailing his hands down his thighs. 

Oh he is going to make them  _ beg _ his forgiveness. 

Unfastening the front of the corset Astarion checks the back to make sure it’s loose before he wraps it around himself. Dark black silk and silver embroidery spun like spider webs across the whole body, it’s perfect. Buttons hidden in the embroidery but Astarion makes quick work of them down his front before turning his attention to the lacing. It has been a very long time since he’s had to put on a corset by himself. 

Arms behind his back, counting the rows of lace thread to find the middle and tugging gently. Takes a breath and tugs a little harder and the threads pull tighter until the corset is comfortably snug around him. A sly smile slips across his face as he ties the loops of lace together and he’s nearly done. Little silver clasps opening greedily for the tops of his stockings, clicking shut with soft sighs. 

There isn’t a mirror in the inn, hells Astarion would be surprised if there was a mirror within fifty miles of this flea ridden dump, but. It isn’t like he’d be able to see himself in one anyways. Besides. He stretches, bending at the waist to grasp his ankles only to run his hands up his stocking covered legs, fingertips lingering over the clasps connecting them to his corset. Brushes the bottom of his chemise where it peeks out below his corset and cups his hands around his waist. 

Lifts his hands slowly up his torso, palms on his collarbone and neck. 

His smile grows, he doesn’t need a mirror to know exactly how fucking good he looks right now. 

Good enough to eat. But when his lovers come back he’s not going to let them. Oh no, not until they repent on their knees for him. Whatever “surprise” they have in store Astarion’s will come first. They won’t be able to do anything except look at him, beg him to let them touch him. 

Closing his eyes he can see it, the door opening and the pair of them walking in to find him spread out on their bed. Dressed up for them. How their eyes would light up, Wyll’s softly and Marsaili’s hungrily. Get close enough to touch only for him to tell them no. 

Astarion swallows a rough noise, tension beginning to burn in his gut. He turns over on his stomach, presses himself into the bed sheets and keeps his eyes shut. 

Would they beg for him quickly, falling to the floor with pleas. No, no they absolutely would not but Astarion hasn’t ever let little things like reality get in the way of his fantasy before. Marsaili on their knees, Wyll kneeling beside them. The bed sheets don’t have enough friction and Astarion rolls back over, wrapping a hand around himself wishing it was one of theirs. 

Loose touches just barely what he wants. If he can dream about them begging so soon he can dream about their touch on his overheated skin. Stroking himself slowly, imagined teasing caresses, behind his eyelids Marsaili twists their fingers in his chemise and Wyll’s hand wraps around his thigh. 

Faster only slightly, biting his lips to keep his restraint. 

Astarion opens his eyes and glances at the door. They’ve been gone an awfully long time, who could blame him if he didn’t keep it all the way. No one’s here to stop him from having fun all by himself now are they.

Dropping his gaze from the door to their piled belongings, one of Wyll’s bags is on top and Astarion smirks. It’s a little more difficult to concentrate than usual but he conjures up his mage hand and rifles through the bag. Doesn’t even have to step across the room, not with these stockings on, even if he’s going more by feel this far away. 

Clicking his tongue Astarion keeps rifling, he shouldn’t have expected to find a slim vial easily in there. Marsaili tends to hoard useless junk and stick it in their bags when theirs gets full and it seems Wyll’s bag is an easier target. Breathing erratically, his hand stuttering. Come on, it’s got to be in there somewhere. 

Invisible fingers wrap around glass, there it is. Perfect. Astarion has the hand bring it over and dissipates the spell, pulls the stopper out of the glass and breathes it in. Oh, this isn’t Wyll’s oil, it’s Marsaili’s. The thick smell of the woods envelops him like moss around the bottom of a tree. Shivering Astarion spills a few drops on his hand and returns it around his cock. Corks the oil and lets it fall out of his grasp. 

No teeth hold his groan back this time. Not enough to be slick only enough to be felt, the oil lights every sensation on fire. Astarion bucks his hips into his hand and burns. Long moments in the candlelight, losing himself in fantasy. 

Cracks open his eyes with a gasp. The bottom of his chemise whispers against his skin as he tips his head back. Where did he put the vial, dropped it into the sheets around here just a moment ago. Scrambling around with his free hand to find it, slowing with his other. Fingertips brush against glass again and Astarion seizes it. 

Unstops the vial and the woods envelop him and Astarion drips more oil but onto his other hand this time. Shifts up on unsteady spread legs, kneeling in the middle of the bed. Thumbs the cork back in the vial and sets on top of the sheets where he can see it. His chest rises and falls rapidly under the tight grasp of his corset and Astarion knows the heat spreading from his cheeks to his toes is visible under his skin. 

Not that anyone is here to see it.  _ Yet _ .

Astarion reaches around to press an oiled finger inside himself and his eyes fall shut one more time. Twisting his wrist on his cock, picturing Marsaili’s smooth grip around his flushed skin. If only his finger were wider the illusion of it being Wyll’s would be easier to pass off. His own touch is a poor substitute even when he sinks a second finger in beside the first and stretches himself on them. Curls his toes into the candlelit air. Heat pools in his gut and Astarion can hardly breathe in the scent of cedar and the flickering light beyond his eyelids isn’t enough to replace the vision of his lovers. 

Their murmurs in his ear, their fingers on his skin. Every inch where they could touch him, tease him, work him up into such a mess  _ he’d  _ beg for  _ them _ without hesitation. Astarion knows pleasure would come from his pleas. Trusts them to deliver what they promise. 

Whines just thinking about it, low and needy and loud and -

Someone knocks on the door.

“Astarion? We’re back.” Marsaili’s voice is smug through the door and Astarion catches his breath after getting it knocked out of him. 

There isn’t time for him to get presentable, not by a long shot, but he drops his touch and wipes the excess oil on the edge of the sheets and falls sideways. Propping one leg up when the door opens and Wyll walks in first. He blinks in the relative darkness, a handful of packages stuffed under his arms which he takes over to their pile of supplies. That absolutely won’t do. 

Astarion hums pleasantly, only a touch breathlessly, “Certainly took the pair of you long enough.” Watches Wyll stack the packages neatly before he turns around and finally, finally after full seconds, looks at him. Takes him in slowly, Astarion in his spiderweb corset and red stockings and candlelight waiting with a smirk, it’s exactly the picture he wanted to paint when he picked them out. 

Watches his head shake slightly and his eyes widen and Astarion lets him walk forward until he’s close enough to reach out and “You don’t get to touch me until you apologize.”

They’re only words and they’re enough to stop Wyll’s hand in the air entirely. It’s intoxicating what trust can do to a person. Melt them without a single touch. Astarion watches him again, would watch him forever, as Wyll licks his lips and asks, “Apologize for what?”

Pouting for full effect, “For leaving me all by myself.” Astarion draws his eyes up and rolls a shoulder back and pleads playfully, “I was  _ so bored _ without anyone else here.” He flicks his eyes from Wyll to Marsaili standing by their supplies fiddling with yet another package. What in the hells did they pick up. 

Whatever, he turns his full attention back to Wyll and bats his eyelashes at him because really why not. 

“I’m sorry we left you so alone,” Wyll’s smile is half mischief, leaning closer to whisper near Astarion’s ear, “but if you’re going to dress like this when we do I don’t think I can promise not to do it again.” The heat scarcely cooled under Astarion’s skin flares back to life and for a heart stopping moment he forgets how to breathe. “May I”

Astarion doesn’t care about what he’s about to ask. Touch him, look at him, fuck him senseless he doesn’t care one whit. “ _ Please. _ ” 

Softly Wyll’s hand cups his cheek to tilt his head up and Astarion sighs shakily into his kiss. Tension curls through his veins in flashes of fire shooting sparks in his blood. Digs his canines into Wyll’s bottom lip to slip inside with his gasp, shapes his name on Wyll’s tongue. He could kiss him a thousand times and still be surprised by how sweetly it tastes. 

Warm fingers splay across his corset and Wyll drags his hand from Astarion’s cheek down his neck to the top of his chemise. Plays with the edge, dipping touches under and curling fingers around the cloth. Astarion moves where his hands lead him, shifting up so he’s kneeling on the bed where he had been minutes before by himself. Wyll pulls back from the kiss, the bed creaking under his weight as he sits behind Astarion. Rearranges them, his hands on Astarion’s waist tugging him back until he’s flush against Wyll’s chest and his legs are spread around his thighs. 

Wyll’s lips brush his ear, his hands wandering down to play with the fastenings holding his stockings in place. Teasing the inside of his thighs, “Looks like you were able to entertain yourself just fine without us.” Callused fingers circle his cock and stroke him slowly and Astarion nearly chokes on a surprised groan. 

He tips his head back and rolls his hips, “Of course I did, I’m very good at it.” Losing himself a little in the sensations, cool air and candle light and Wyll’s touch on his skin. Eyes open and unfocused.

Laughing lowly Wyll twists his wrist. Pulls at one of the fastenings with his free hand and lets it snap against Astarion’s skin. “Marsaili, what do you think about showing Astarion the surprise we got for him?”

Goosebumps rise across his skin and Astarion blinks rapidly to pull himself back. A hand rests itself by his knee, when did they get so close, not touching him for a moment. A moment suspended in breathless anticipation. Marsaili leans over him,“I, too, am sorry we left you alone.” Soft in the room, smug whispers in the dark. Words close enough Astarion could kiss them off their lips. “But only because if we’d brought you we could have had you that much sooner.”

Twitching under Wyll’s hand, hips jerking at their words, soothed by Wyll’s touch. 

“Wyll asked what I think, well, I’ve been thinking that delicate little ass of yours deserves a good fuck.” Marsaili’s fingers wrap under his jaw, forcing him to tilt his head back and meet their gaze. Oh but the heat he finds there could set even his dead heart racing. Certainly more than enough to send flames licking down his spine. Nails scrape across his skin and Astarion bites back another groan. “What do you think?”

It’s a question but it isn’t for him. Opening his mouth to answer anyway only gets Marsaili’s thumb on his lips. “It does leave the problem of his mouth.” Sly smile growing wicked, eyes flicking to the left. 

Shivering, Astarion rolls his hips again, Wyll’s hand squeezes his hips once before he lets go of the straps on his corset. Hears the grin in his voice, “I can take care of that.” Delicately his hand wraps around Astarion’s neck and Astarion’s eyes flutter shut. 

Kneeling between the two of them, legs spread around Wyll’s thighs with nothing to hide how hard he aches under Wyll’s touch. The fabric of Wyll’s shirt drags against Astarion’s bare skin in a promise he can almost taste. Not yet, but soon. 

“And he did work so hard dressing himself up,” Marsaili’s fingers drag down jaw hungrily and meet Wyll’s hand around his throat. “It would be a shame to take him out of it.” Lips ghosting over his cheek in a breath warm enough to send sparks rushing across his skin. 

Their nails dig into the skin at the base of his neck, little red lines disappearing down under his chemise as their touch trails lower. Pressing against his corset Marsaili’s hand rises with each shuddering breath Astarion manages to take. His fantasies never have the same heat in them, the realities of their hands on him isn’t something he can replicate, Wyll twists his wrist again and Astarion groans outright. 

“Go ahead and come up here Marsaili,” Wyll’s voice is low in his ear, tight and soft and Astarion wants to unravel it completely. “I think he missed the show you gave putting it on.”

Astarion blinks, he missed what exactly? But Wyll’s fingers tighten around his throat and his hand stokes against his heated skin and whatever he missed doesn’t matter anymore. Especially as the bed dips once more and Marsaili joins the pair of them already on the bed. And.

Oh.  _ That’s _ what he missed.

Swallowing hard Astarion tips his head back onto Wyll’s chest with a jerk of his hips, it is a surprise he could forgive them for. Thin leather straps wrap around Marsaili’s waist and hold a thick glass cock close to their hips. Marsaili’s smile is sharp to match the press of their nails returning to his jaw, fingertips on his lips. Leaning forward and Astarion’s heart would stop dead in his chest if it still beat.

But instead of him Marsaili kisses Wyll. Their hand grips him tightly and Wyll’s touch stutters under Marsaili’s attention and it’s a kiss of gasps and edges and want. A night of patient desire being fulfilled. Astarion’s stomach flips, he’s been told the stories about butterflies but it can’t be so gentle, not for him, even if it feels like it could be. 

It doesn’t take them long to shift positions. Turning Astarion to his knees between them with Marsaili to his back and Wyll in front of him. Making good on his promise Wyll’s hand on his throat guides Astarion lower and he follows easily, sighs as Wyll frees himself to Astarion’s attention, while Marsaili laughs when they ask where the oil is. Their hands slide up his thighs, brushing his chemise up past his ass, the pop of the cork from the vial fills the air around them with the scent of the woods once more and holy darkness Astarion  _ aches _ .

Wants. With Marsaili’s hands squeezing his ass Astarion laps at Wyll’s already hard cock, salt beading under his tongue. Strong hands on his shoulders, the first time they did this they made the mistake of letting Wyll grab Astarion’s hair and Astarion still shudders at the memory of those memories returning. It only took the one time to learn, one night ending in a different sort of intimacy, a sharing of fear instead of pleasure. So Wyll’s fingers dig into his shoulder blades instead of his scalp and Astarion trusts him. 

But that’s a little too honest, a little too open. And there’s a perfectly good distraction in front of him. Mouthing at the tip of Wyll’s cock teasingly Astarion circles his hand around the base before sinking down as far as he can manage tucking his fangs carefully behind his lips. Flicks his gaze back up to Wyll and swirls his tongue. 

And behind him Marsaili proves themselves ample distraction with an oil slick finger. He groans around Wyll’s cock but doesn’t stop his attention. Humming delightedly Marsaili easily presses a second finger inside and scissors them apart, “You certainly did entertain yourself while we were out didn’t you.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to answer because it isn’t a question. Quiet laughter follows a second pop and Astarion bobs his head on Wyll’s cock hungrily. Strokes his hand over what little he can’t fit in his mouth. Wyll’s fingers grasp tightly at the hem of his chemise in time with the restrained jerks of his hips into Astarion’s mouth. Little gasps in the night.

Moans outright as the blunt tip of Marsaili’s glass cock enters him. His voice mixes with Wyll’s and Astarion shudders back trying to press himself flush with Marsaili’s hips. Slides his tongue flat against Wyll’s cock and turns his attention back to the tip. 

Heady salt and heavy pressure, hot pleasure building under his skin and Astarion burns under their touch. Marsaili’s hand wraps around his own cock in a perfectly loose grip, stroking him off in time with their deep thrusts. It’s entirely too much all at once. He doesn’t hold back the noises Marsaili draws out of him in the slightest, no, oh no he lets them sound around Wyll’s cock and sinks down lower. Lavishes Wyll with the same care Marsaili gives him.

Wyll’s controlled voice unravels slowly but the press of his nails into Astarion’s back above his corset is hard to match the short jerks of his hips. Choked little noises he could coax from him over and over and over again and he would never get enough of them. But. Astarion smirks around his cock and sucks hard. Nothing matches Wyll’s broken moan as he comes down the back of Astarion’s throat. 

And if the sharp stutter of Marsaili’s hips is anything to go by he’s not the only one appreciative of Wyll’s noises. 

Their hand twists around his cock as he swallows greedily, changing the angle on their thrusts to hit the one spot that makes him see stars every time. Full of sensation, warmth crawling under his skin in flowing tendrils of pleasure. Balling up tightly in his gut. Wyll’s hand strokes his bare shoulders and it’s enough, his touch is always enough. Astarion cries out in the candlelit dark under his lover’s hands. 

Out of focus and fuzzy a flickering haze over his vision. Nothing but touch and murmurs and tingling washed out heat. What an honest thing to trust. To linger in the golden glow. 

Marsaili pulls out gently with a word in Wyll’s direction but Astarion isn’t exactly paying them any mind. Far too blissed out to care about what they’re talking about, even when they softly unbutton his corset and unfasten his stockings. He knows they’ll take care of them, of him. 

Besides, cleaning up isn’t often his job anyways. 

Though he must have said it aloud because Wyll laughs before kissing his cheek, “Not tonight it isn’t.” Still fully dressed with not a hair out of place. Unbelievable.

“Go-” Astarion gives him a weak wave before he realizes he really doesn’t have any particular end to his command, “Go undress or something why don’t you. Suddenly I think I’ll be going to bed early.”

Snorting from across the room Marsaili makes a comment Astarion can only halfway hear but understands perfectly. He sniffs, “If you don’t want to join me Marsaili I hear Shadowheart’s room is still open.”

They shake their head, “Move over you’re going to hog all the blankets again.” Head tilted, night shift half on, Marsaili glows in the candlelight and Astarion can’t quite look at them without smiling. 

He does as he asked, makes room for both of them on the bed and this time between them Astarion’s dead heart hopes to beat for an entirely different reason.


End file.
